


New Year, New Lives

by DJVennalyn



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fic Exchange, Fluff, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:50:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6996502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJVennalyn/pseuds/DJVennalyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France and England attempt to celebrate the hols, and it all goes terribly, regrettably, wrong.</p><p>Written as a prompt for a FrUK gift exchange.</p><p>The last Hetalia fic I will ever post. I forgot to post this one last December when I actually wrote it, but my heart wasn't as in it was it was when I wrote Rainy Weather the previous year. I still love this fanfiction if only for the fact that I actually finished it, but I don't have any desire to write any more Hetalia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Year, New Lives

France, as usual for any occasion he deemed special, had grand plans for New Years Eve. England, unusually, was planning to do his absolute best in making sure that France’s plans came to fruition. The two of them had been unofficially dating for some time and sharing a flat for the majority of that time and some before it, having been longtime friends before they were lovers, and as such they celebrated most holidays together. This year though was their first holiday as an official couple. England’s flight into France had been delayed Christmas Eve due to a combination of work and unexpected inclement weather. Upon his arrival to the airport in Paris at half past 2am, he was more than surprised to see France waiting for him. Half asleep and himself tired from late work, he was the most beautiful thing that England had ever seen. France held a sign that read “Angleterre, sans avec moi?” in response to which England cuffed France behind the ears and asked “What on earth have we been doing these past years git.” a non-question which was made less threatening by the passionate kiss that followed.   
So now, several days later, England was doing his best to make himself useful. He had begun by functioning as France’s alarm that morning, which earned him a pillow to the head and a string of curses that seemed they should have come from England himself, not his gentlemanly god of a boyfriend. His next helpful task of the morning was to try and pick out France’s clothes for him. At first, France ran out of the bathroom wearing them and not even bothering to check. As soon as he caught sight of himself in the mirror the cursing resumed, and he rapidly changed into a dark blue silk shirt and casual slacks instead of the sweater vest/khakis combination that England had picked out for him. England next tried to clean the flat. He was normally the one that did that anyway when he could be buggered to, so it went fine enough for some time until he accidentally knocked over a priceless vase with a wild swing of his feather duster. After that, and nearly an hour of pestering for something to help with, an exasperated France shooed him into the sitting room “Angleterre, mon chou, I’ve got this. You just go relax while I finish up cooking in here and then we can relax together.”  
In England’s defense, he honestly tried to relax. He watched the telly for a bit, listened to some old music (it was the beatles. As much as he hated to admit it--and never would do so to America’s face--they were pretty good.) Some of the songs though reminded him of France, which in turn reminded him of how much he wanted to help. He gave relaxing one last shot by reading a book curled up in his favorite chair by the fire, but to no avail. He had lasted a mere half an hour before he finally wandered back into the kitchen, once again begging for work to do.  
France massaged his temples. “Fine. Mon cher, if you must have work, then here. Arrange these orderves--carefully--on platters. Do not drop them, do not eat them yet, and do not try to cook. I have to run to go get some fresh herbs, I’ll be right back.” he rushed off through the door and threw one last warning over his shoulder. “Do not touch anything!”  
At first, it seemed to go well. England placed each orderve carefully on their respective platters, tempted to eat one but studiously refraining. The calm lasted about five minutes. England was just about to give in to his temptation, France be damned, when the oven timer went off. England stared at it for a moment, then at the door where France had disappeared to the rooftop garden, then back at the oven. Cautiously creeping over to it, England cracked open the lid and peered in at the food cooking inside. It was a delicious looking quiche, but it was only a light yellow rather than a golden brown yet. France’s crown jewel of the feast he was preparing for the two of them. “It can last a few more minutes until France gets back. Anyway, he told me not to touch anything so I shouldn’t even be near here.” he shut the oven door gently, only letting it clang ever so slightly as he returned to placing orderves. He finished in another three minutes and sat at a loss for what to do at first, before he got a bright idea. “I’ll just--yes--up you go!” he lifted the four precariously balanced orderve trays onto his arms and focused on walking carefully towards the sitting room.  
As France was returning from the herb garden a mere eight minutes after he had left, he felt an inexplicable sense of dread descend over him out of nowhere. He quickened his pace, and by the time he reached the flat door he was nearly jumping from landing to landing. As he reached their door he flung it wide open, thudding it against the wall. There was a gasp and a loud crash as a startled Arthur jumped, dropping all four of the orderve trays as a result. There was a moment of horrified silence, both of them frozen in semi-ridiculous poses as they processed what had happened. England was the first to move. “I uh, I was--” he blustered, and France cut him off with a single sharp hand raised as he surveyed the mess with dismay. Not a single orderve was salvageable, and two of the trays were dinged up and dented besides.   
“Angleterre, how could you! I gave you one simple task and you still managed to mess it up!” France looked heartbroken over the loss of his orderves, his eyes not even focusing on England and rather glued to the fallen mess of his cooking. His eyes seemed to be welling up with tears. “I worked so hard on those!” he raked a hand through his hair in dismay.  
“Sorry, god I’m so sorry France. I just wanted to help and then you startled me. Look on the bright side, at least you have your--” he stopped dead once more, frozen with a look that was clearly panic on his face. “quiche...oh shit.” France’s gaze slowly traveled up to England’s face, the horror even more prominent on it now.  
“Angleterre, what did you do to my quiche?” he asked quietly, although he was practically shaking with panic.  
England held up his hands defensively. “I didn’t do anything, you said not to touch it and I didn’t!”  
England didn’t think it was possible for France to become any paler, but as the burning scent his his nostrils and the fire alarm in the kitchen went off in a high keeing wail, it would not have been hard to mistake him for a ghost. He was off like a shot to the kitchen, turning off the fire alarm and trying to pull his quiche out of the oven while flailing around a dishtowel to get rid of some of the smoke. In his haste to remove the quiche he forgot to grab oven mitts, and he swore loudly in french as he tried to pick up the tin and it burnt him, causing him to drop it all over the floor and destroy any chance he had previously of salvaging it. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, the top of the quiche was no longer a nice golden brown but a dark crusted brown almost black at some parts. There was a moment of horrified silence.  
France let out a high, keening wail and England launched once again into apologies. “I’m so sorry--I didn’t mean--France I swear---”  
“Non. Angleterre I do not want your las excuses. I try so hard and I just wanted to do something nice and special for you but you cannot be civil for one night to let me do this!” France’s hair was uncharacteristically messy as he gestured wildly around the room.  
“You try so hard? I was just trying to help, and you just started yelling at me! It’s not my bloody fault you told me not to touch anything! It didn’t look quite done so I left it in, I didn’t think how long you would be gone!” England argued, his fists clenched by his side.  
“You monstré! I assumed that you could have the common sense to handle something as trivial as a quiche! Non, you just wanted to ruin my plans like you always do!”   
“I wasn’t trying to ruin your plans you bloody git I was trying to be helpful for once! What do you think I was trying to do all day?”  
“Get in my way and drive me to the brink of insanity, clearly! Why would you ever help me, you’ve taken great pride in the past in mocking my efforts and being the exact opposite of helpful!”  
“Because I love you that’s why you bloody git but you’re too busy cooking and assuming I’m doing this to be obstinate to realize that!” England shouted, louder than any exclamation either of them had made before. Silence fell over the room, but this one was more embarrassed than horrified.  
“Angleterre, mon chou, what did you just say?” France asked cautiously, his mouth open slightly.  
“You heard me you bloody git, I love you, okay? I was trying to help you all day because I wanted the day to be perfect, since you had so many plans that you seemed excited about, and I just wanted to see you happy.” he was clearly frustrated that his intentions had been misinterpreted, and his face was red with both anger and embarrassment. He crossed his arms. “But if you’re going to continue to loudly accuse me of trying to ruin--” France cut him off with a tight, sudden, and unexpected hug.  
“Oh Angleterre, je suis desolee for accusing you. I should have asked you before I jumped to conclusions. I am still mad over the ruin of my food though, do not think that you have gotten off of the hook on that one. But Angleterre? Je vous aime.” Francis smiled at him. “Now come on you nuisance, let’s find something else to do.”  
That something else ended up being cuddled up together on the couch for several hours watching cheesy romantic comedies, their legs tangled together and arms wrapped around each other. “France.” Arthur mumbled half asleep into his ear.   
“Oui mon ami?” France shifted ever so slightly so that he could see his tired partner.  
“I wasn’t kidding earlier. I meant what I said. I really do love you.” France felt the vibration on his neck where England’s lips were pressed against it, just beneath his ear. The weight of the words resonated even more strongly within France, and it was without hesitation that he replied.  
“Neither was I, mon chou. Sleep now. We can talk more in the morning.” France pressed a chaste kiss against England’s chapped lips. As he did so, the grandfather clock in the living room, the only truly antique and not modern object that he allowed to be easily accessible on display in their tiny flat, chimed twelve and fireworks began firing. The tv, now on a break, was showing a fluttering golden banner stating only the year in sparkling letters with fireworks behind. France had only time to think shrewdly at the  
Throughout the next two years the two of them lived mostly happily, although certainly not without conflict, in their flat together, flying back and forth between each of their respective countries when needed. The next New Years celebration, France arranged for England to be out of the house until the preparations were done, and they went off without a hitch. If, that is to say, you consider a shattered bottle of very expensive wine that got shattered and set fire to by accident without a hitch. They finished the night after nearly setting the apartment on fire at the Eiffel tower near the very top, watching the fireworks and enjoying each other’s company. The second year they had been living together, once again at New Years, England proposed. In a similar situation to their very first, they had gotten into an argument over a trivial matter which quite nearly came to blows this time. England ended up proposing by throwing the ring at France as he walked out the door, although later he proposed properly, and France ran after him. Similar again to their first, this New Year ended on the couch. Although neither of them were very sleepy, and there was very little relaxed cuddling going on.   
Once they were married three months later, the two moved into a little cottage in Normandy together. Still they went back and forth between their countries when necessary, but they did more of their work from home now. Still they quarreled their fair share, but it was usually ended by cuddling or other things rather than coming to blows (although the few times it did come to blows, England very much had the upper hand. Despite his scholarly looks, he never quite forgot all he learnt growing up as a frequently warring nation and in his pirate days). A few of their colonies, Monaco, Seychelles, and Sealand, came to live with them for a time as their children. Of course, they left eventually. But what child doesn’t leave home. France and England were happy there, together, and that was what mattered.


End file.
